


the thing with feathers fluttering in her chest

by sunkelles



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Inspired by Poetry, That's Not How The Force Works, The Jedi Diaspora, Trilla Suduri | Second Sister Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkelles/pseuds/sunkelles
Summary: When Trilla defeats Cal on Bogano she drags his unconscious body back to her ship. Sith can’t open Jedi holocrons, of course, and they need someone to access all those names off the device before they can turn all those little ones into inquisitors. Once they pry all the information that they need off the device, Cal will make a fine inquisitor himself. With two prizes of such value, Trilla is sure to win not only her Lord’s favor, but the Emperor’s as well.Things don’t go according to plan when Trilla feels something unfurl its wings inside her that she hasn’t felt in years: hope.
Relationships: Cal Kestis & Trilla Suduri | Second Sister
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	the thing with feathers fluttering in her chest

**Author's Note:**

> eh, warnings are about canon typical? mistreating prisoners (poor cal is just. he's gonna fucking reek. poor guy), minor torture all of inquisitor-dom considered, and also some bad writing, babes
> 
> 1\. thanks to emily dickinson for her wonderful poem hope is the thing with feathers and also her use of the dashes! lots of dickens influence in this one.  
> 2\. the working title of this was also "tomorrow there'll be more of us" from hamilton because initially, the intention of making more inquisitors vs accidentally becoming a jedi again was more of a theme, but it didn't end up being big enough to warrant the title. however, i still think that knowing that could increase your reading experience! i think it's still there a little.  
> 3\. this is more.. redemption catalyst than "redemption" fic. trilla is not just instantly "good" now, but we're gonna get there! there's work to be done but it's gonna get done. we just gotta give the girl a chance <3  
> 4\. i headcanon that the rodian youngling that we see in trilla's flashback is ganodi from the gathering arc in the clone wars! it's not a happy headcanon except in aus where they live, but i thought it's worth mentioning. also hestia is an OC that will hopefully show up in a trilla and cal roleswap that i've been working on for a while. cross your fingers that i get it written, y'all.

_“Hope” is the thing with feathers -_

_That perches in the soul -_

_And sings the tune without the words -_

_And never stops - at all -_

"Hope" is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson

* * *

Trilla does not throw the Jedi prisoner into the interrogation cell. While he’ll end up there eventually, that does not suit her current needs. A simple holding cell is good enough for now. Yes- a hard floor, a square cell four feet wide by four feet long with four dark metal walls and a single bright red energy door suits her purposes perfectly. 

Harsh red light, intimidating metal walls, no room to stretch out or place to sit besides the floor, and no place to wash or defecate. The perfect balance of confinement and dehumanization. The perfect way to bend someone to her will, but not break him. 

Trilla stands in front of the red light that forms the wall of the cell, and crosses her arms over her chest. She looks down at him while he sits cross-legged in a meditative pose in the corner, letting his head lull back onto the wall.

“Someone looks comfortable,” she drawls. The Jedi startles as he looks up at her, but then the frightened look turns to a slight glare. 

“What do you want from me?” he asks.

She raises an eyebrow, and asks, “What do you _think_ I want from you?”

“You aren’t going to make me an inquisitor,” he says.

“And what gives you that impression?” she asks, tilting her head to the side and sending him a patronizing look.

“This isn’t how you woke up when they caught you,” he says evenly, “they just started torturing you. If you wanted an inquisitor, I’d already be strapped to a shock chair.” 

“Clever boy,” she says, and she makes sure that it comes out like she's talking to a particularly slow dog, “we can’t make you into an inquisitor. At least not yet.” He sends her a cautious look. 

“And why is that?” She reaches into her black side bag, and pulls out the holocron. 

“This is a _Jedi_ holocron,” she says, twirling it around in her fingers, “we both know that I couldn’t open it if I try.” And she _has_ tried. She asked the others to try too. None of them had a bit of luck trying to get it to open under their machinations. 

“You expect me to open that holocron and pull out the names for you?” he asks. 

“I do,” she says, a slight smile tugging at her lips, “eventually, we all break.” The Jedi smiles at that, and a twinkle of mischief gleams in his eyes. 

“Ah,” he says, “but you need me to stay a Jedi to get the information for you. And I won’t be willing to do that until I’m broken beyond repair. Then, it’ll all be worthless.” 

“I think that you overestimate yourself, Padawan,” Trilla says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

He doesn't wither under her gaze, only lifts his chin and says, “You would have died before you gave up younglings, once.” Trilla feels a twinge of anger at that, but the idiot does not stop taking. 

“Do you remember them? Hestia, _Ganodi_ -” An image of an inquisitor force choking the tiny little twi’lek back at their hideout flashes through her mind, followed by an image of the young Rodian igniting her green lightsaber, only to be met with a red saber through the back of her chest flashes through her mind, and Trilla doesn’t feel anything but red hot _rage_. 

She holds out her hand, and rips him up off the ground. She squeezes as tightly as she can just to make him _shut up._ She hears him croaking, sees him grasping his hands around his throat, and she thinks about how Lord Vader would tear her apart if she managed to kill their only chance of opening the holocron. She releases him, and lets the Jedi crumple in a pile on the ground. 

“I remember that they were weak,” Trilla hisses, “as are you.” The younglings are dead because they were Jedi children, too young and fragile to shape into inquisitors. She’s only alive because there was enough training there for the Empire to bother with. Kestis might not be as skilled as she was, but he has enough to get them to bother. 

She will break this boy eventually, and he will bring the Empire the names that they need before she molds him into an inquisitor. 

“You’re better than this,” he whispers, and Trilla feels anger flare within her. She can’t choke him again, because if she does she might break his throat. She still needs him alive to open the damn holocron. Instead, she turns her back to his cell and stomps down the hallway as loudly as she can manage. 

  
  
  
  
  


He makes it maybe four hours before he’s calling out for her. The troopers assigned to guard him com her to let her know, and she decides to indulge in a meeting. Manipulation takes time, of course, but mainly it takes strategic and intentional interaction. She makes her way over to his cell, and instead of sitting, the Jedi is leaning against the red light wall of his cell. 

If she’s not wrong, he’s crossing his legs the way that people only do when they desperately need to piss. 

“Where am I supposed to go to the bathroom?” he asks, gesturing to the four square feet of cell. She smirks at him. 

“Your cell has a corner, doesn’t it?” she asks, tilting her head towards the farthest corner from him. His face turns as red as his hair. 

“I can’t just- just-” he sputters. 

“Well,” she says, “you can always open that holocron for me. Then, you won’t have to lay down to sleep in your own piss.” His face stays bright red, but not in embarrassment. His lip curls into a snarl, and she can tell that the red now is from anger. 

“Do you expect me to sell out my people for a chance to use the bathroom?” he demands. His hand curls into a fist. It’s almost cute how he can still get righteously angry. The amount of naivety he must still have, to be that idealistic five years after the rise of the Empire. How could he not have known the suffering that would harden his heart? 

“The Jedi aren’t anyone’s people anymore,” she tells him, “they’re just dead.” He meets her eyes. 

“They were your people too,” he says. Trilla feels a twinge of anger then, a _how dare you_ feeling that she hasn’t felt in years. She reaches out a hand in the force. She doesn't choke him, but grips his throat tightly.

“My master left me to die,” she snarls. She sees him reaching again, trying to claw off the invisible hands.

“I’m s-sorry,” he croaks, as if Cere’s sins are somehow his own, “-deserved better.” Trilla reaches her hand out, and slams him down. He hits the ground with a thud. 

“You deserve nothing,” she hisses. She stomps off to her quarters, leaving the Jedi alone in his cell. 

She knows that the isolation will not start to set in for days- maybe even weeks. She’ll have to let him be for a while for solitary confinement to work any desired effect, but every time that she thinks about him sitting in that cell, thinking that the Jedi are still his people, that there’s still hope- she just wants to strap him to an electric chair and shock it out of him. 

He’s not supposed to think that there’s still something worth fighting for. Where is the desperation? The fear? The Jedi are dead, and this is all that’s allowed to remain. He should understand how precarious his position is. 

The days pass, and Trilla searches the imperial archives for other survivors that she might be able to hunt down. The list has shrunk a lot over the past few years as they’ve created more inquisitors and killed the others, but there’s still enough worth tracking down. If there’s anything that Trilla _loves_ about being an inquisitor, it’s the thrill of the hunt. Picking up on clues that alert her to her target’s motives, their likely choices, and the best way to catch them in their own traps. 

But Cal Kestis doesn’t work the way that the others have anymore. There’s this insidious hope buried deep in his chest, and Trilla worries that she won’t be able to stomp it out until she turns him completely and loses access to the holocron once again. 

How can she bend him just the right amount? A Jedi, just slightly fallen? She doesn’t know, but she stares at the grooves in her ceiling and thinks and rages and thinks again. She turns over on her side, and takes the holocron off of her bedside table. 

Trilla doesn’t expect the holocron to open for her; she’s a Sith now. A Jedi holocron won’t move between her fingers the way that it did when she was a Padawan, but that doesn’t stop her from trying for the umpteenth time. 

It hovers inches above her fingertips, core glowing bright white. She can almost picture it opening for her, light engulfing the room, names splayed out before her. But the damn thing won’t budge, no matter how hard she thinks at it. She takes a deep breath, and tries again. 

It doesn’t work. She shoves the cube down on her nightstand, and shoves her eyes shut. She tries to will herself to sleep. She doesn’t have any more luck with that than with the holocron. 

  
  
  


She keeps herself away for a few days, but far fewer than she’d hoped- fewer than would really be necessary for the isolation to settle in. She glances at the Padawan, and notices that he's shed his poncho. Then her eyes shift slightly and see exactly why. His navy blue poncho has been bunched up into a little bowl shape in the corner, and she notices that parts of it shine. Other parts of it have little brown piles. He’s sitting as far away from that corner as is humanly possible, pressed up against one wall to the back and one wall to the side, knees curled up to his chest with his arms wrapped around and laced together at the front. His head lulls to the side against the wall, and she thinks that he might be asleep. 

“I see your makeshift bathroom,” she tells him, letting her disdain drip from her words. She sees him take his head off the wall, setting it on straight. He doesn’t look at her, but he does open his eyes and look straight ahead. She thinks he’s looking at his shoes. 

“You didn’t give me many options,” he mutters. She doesn’t want to admit that it was a clever idea for him to use the piece of clothing he had that was made of a water-proof tarp to make a little bowl to hold his excretions and keep them away from them, so she doesn’t comment on it at all. 

“Are you ready to give in?” she asks, knowing full well what the answer will be. He’s not anywhere near breaking yet. He _does_ look at her, though. He meets her eyes and smiles. 

“Nope,” he says, popping the goddamn p like a perky little youngling. It almost makes her sick to hear that sound come out of the mouth of a prisoner. Where is his fear? His anger? His hatred? 

“Why are you so damn hopeful,” she demands. 

“Not sure I’d say hopeful,” he says, “more like… cautiously optimistic.” 

“What do you have to be optimistic about?” Any sort of optimism is too reckless for a time like this. He adjusts his position, shifting his legs to cross in front of him, and stretching his arms as high as he can get them. 

“I still have the Force,” he says. Then, he closes his eyes and starts _meditating._ That little bastard thinks that he can just- escape. Keep his silly little Jedi ways and avoid having to face the fact that the Empire has him, and they’ll use his precious little skills to get all those children and then break down whatever’s left of him into an inquisitor to keep on hunting down other survivors. 

“You still have the Force,” Trilla repeats, coldly. The Jedi doesn’t say anything else in response, doesn’t even open his eyes. He just nods. Trilla feels her anger build, and she sees him stiffen as he catches a hint of her force signature- red hot rage palpable to anyone who can sense it.

She stands there, letting her anger boil over and seep into him. However, she doesn’t unleash the full force of it onto him the way that she desperately wants to. She turns away from him, and leaves him to his futile meditation. 

She has an idea that might wipe that challenge right off of his face. 

  
  


Getting a Force Inhibiting Collar is not as easy as it should be. As an inquisitor, Trilla should be one of the few people in the Empire with easy access to such technology. But even as the second in command of the entire organization, she’s not high enough on the chain of command to obtain it herself. She still has to bring the request to the Grand Inquisitor, and allow it to pass through his judgement. 

The Pau’an male is no Lord Vader, but he’s still intimidating. He’s the only member of the Inquisitorious who outranks her, and he knows how to use his height. She finds her eyes looking at his sharp teeth and glancing down at the lightsaber he used on her so often as a recruit far more often than she ever meets his eyes. Eye contact with the Grand Inquisitor is a game of chance. Most of the chances end in pain, so she doesn't tend to risk it.

“You want a Force Inhibiting Collar to use on this Jedi,” he says. 

“Yes.” 

“So that you can get him to… _use_ the force?”

“Yes,” Trilla says, “if _I_ were cut off from the force for months, I would be willing to do anything to get it back. Wouldn’t you?” He grins, revealing his mouthful of fangs right at her eye level. 

“Perhaps you’re right, Sister,” he says, “but if you are not. Well.” His look shifts, eyes narrowing and smile turning to a snarl. 

“We can always replace a second in command.” Trilla feels the Grand Inquisitor’s utter joy at the idea of putting her down in the Force, and she feels a shiver travel down her spine. 

“Of course, Grand Inquisitor,” she grinds out. 

  
  


He gets the collar for her, and Trilla holds it gingerly in her hands. The metal is cold and smooth, and maybe it’s a placebo effect, but Trilla feels less in tune with the Force the moment that it touches her skin. She wastes no time stalking down the hallways to near the Jedi’s cell.

She gathers a group of three troopers to help her, because she's not about to try to subdue the boy in his cell. She would win, of course, but she might end up rolling around in his shit- and would certainly have to smell it. She’s not about to risk that just to prove that she’s stronger than he is. A group of three troopers will be more than enough to subdue the Jedi and get the collar wrapped around his neck. 

When she and her little squadron of stormtroopers arrive at the cell, the Jedi is sitting against the corner of his wall on the opposite side of his little shit station, with about a foot between the end of his thigh and the beginning of that cesspool. He’s able to fully extend his legs, but the tips of his toes almost brush up against the end of the wall. 

He looks up at her, and sighs. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, sounding tired. He reaches up to his eyebrow and starts rubbing it. Trilla doesn’t grace that with a response. Instead, she hits the control panel in front of the cell, and orders the troopers inside. Then, she closes the door behind them. She watches intently as the Jedi struggles against them, but one of them forces him against the wall as another slams the collar around his neck. Then, the trooper kicks the Jedi in the teeth. 

Trilla hits the button and quickly allows the troopers out, and slams it down the moment that they’re through. She glances back at the Jedi through the holographic red door, and sees red blood running down his nose. He seems unconcerned by that, though, and he reaches his hands under the collar and tries to unlodge it. 

There’s a wide-eyed look of terror on his face as he tries to rip off the collar.

“Don’t even bother,” she tells him, “you won’t get it off.” 

“What did you do to me?” he demands, ripping and tearing, little red scratch marks running up his neck from the places where his nails have dug into his skin. 

“I cut you off from the Force,” she says. He pales. Then, she sees his breathing speed up.

"How?" he demands.

"How do you think, judging by that collar," she says. Honestly, sometimes he's so slow she wonders how he lived this long. She sees him move his hands into his lap, and fold them. He gently moves his fingers against each other, presumably just to remind himself he can feel something. He closes his eyes, and she watches his chest rise and fall along with his breath. Calming himself down from the shock.

"Honestly, you act like this is a new concept," she says, rolling her eyes, "this is just like the Mandalorians used to do, back when we were at war.” To her absolute surprise, the Jedi's eyes crinkle a little as a smile crosses his face. 

“Wait,” he asks, “did you just say we?” _Shit,_ Trilla thinks, flushing. She’s _not_ a Jedi, not in any of the ways that matter. 

“I meant “we” as in the galaxy,” she asserts. The Jedi nods indulgently, and she considers going into his cell to give him another kick to the teeth. She decides to refrain, and instead uses her words. 

As weapons, of course. Not for something as soft as _communication._

“You won’t ever feel the Force again,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning on her right foot, “that is, if you don’t agree to open the holocron for us.” He glares.

“We both know I won’t agree to that,” he says. He sounds a little tired, if anything. Not scared, the way he was when he first got the collar. Not angry, not even hopeful like he seemed when she said “we”. That’s a good sign, at the very least. Exhaustion is one of the many roads that lead into imperial service. 

“We’ll see how you feel in a month, when you haven’t seen anyone or sensed anything in all that time,” she says. He glares at her, but there’s no heat in it. No fear that leads to anger. No anger that leads to hate. Not even a hint of his patented Jedi hope. Just apathy. Well, that's at least a good sign at least.

If she can get him to understand that there’s no good place this road will ever end, then she can convince him to give in. Then she might be able to stop obsessing over this whole damn affair. 

That would certainly make things easier for her too, and Trilla's always searched for the easy way out.

Trilla keeps glancing down the hallway that leads to the Jedi’s cell. She knows that it would be counter-intuitive to visit him, when the intention is to leave him in the dark to break- but she wants to see him. Maybe it’s just because he’s the most interesting thing on this ship, but she wants to hear him sputter at her suggestions that he’ll give in before she turns him completely. 

Wants to hear him claim that he can make it through until his soul is sith-scarred, darkened beyond what a holocron will recognize. 

Maybe even wants to hear him claim that her scars aren’t so deep they’ll never heal. 

But Trilla’s not naive enough to indulge that, so she meets up with the other inquisitors, and she spars, and she calls dibs on hunting down her former master. If she doesn’t put all of her heart into tracking Cere Junda down like the rabid dog she is, well. That’s only because she’s distracted by trying to get access to the holocron. It’s not worth examining beyond that. 

Every night before she goes to bed, she tries to open the holocron. Most nights, it doesn't light up for her at all. Some nights it will blink like a candle flame in the wind. But tonight- tonight Trilla is feeling melancholic. Not nostalgic as much as homesick, missing a place that she can never return to with people who were never good for her in the first place. Tonight there's something in her that wants to be a Jedi, despite their weakness, her banishment, and the darkness that's sprouted in her soul.

She doesn't just want in the holocron because of her mission, but because a tiny speck of her wants to feel like she's in her childhood home.

She fiddles with the block. She tosses it up in the air, cradles it in her fingers. She takes a deep breath, trying to penetrate its walls. She feels the first blockade bend for a moment, like a semi-permeable membrane moving to accommodate something new inside its walls. She feels a fluttering in her chest- anxious, excited, cautiously optimistic, but then- the walls stiffen again. She’s left outside of the holocron, and the glow dies down. The little cube is left as dead as it’s ever been, and Trilla glares at it as she sets it down on her nightstand. 

Of course it was never going to let her in, but... That's the thing about hope- whenever Trilla lets it live, it ends up getting her hurt. Having hope means that there's something left to lose. She wants to hope- wants there to be something better than this, but. Well. Trilla's never seen any evidence that there is.

She glances over at the holocron, and sees the edges faintly glowing white. She shakes her head insistently, trying to will the sight away. She closes her eyes, and tries to drown out the image by imagining the red light of her saberstaff. That is reality- no hope, no homecoming, and no pure white lights.

There is no hope, no home to come back to, and certainly there's nothing pure about her anymore. There's nothing that the Empire hasn’t bled out and left out to stain.

Trilla starts to feel her anxieties increasing. That might have been alright if her anxieties were just anxieties and not absolutely fucking warranted.

Lord Vader deigns to visit Nur, demanding a progress update on the holocron situation. The Grand Inquisitor smiles with a mouthful of fangs as he gets to shift the heat from himself onto Trilla. Then, he gets to leave and she has to stay. It’s just Trilla and Lord Vader, now, alone in the hallway. 

Except, of course, for Lord Vader’s frustration. That can be felt all across the ship. She wonders if the Jedi can still pick up on it despite his Force Inhibiting Collar. 

“Second Sister,” Lord Vader says, “why has there been no progress made on opening the holocron?” 

“The holocron requires a Jedi’s touch, Lord Vader,” she says, “and I almost have the Jedi willing to open it. Any day now, the information will be ours.” She tries to shield her emotions, to ensure that he doesn’t feel how a blatantly she's lying to him. He doesn’t cut through her right then and there, so maybe she’s succeeded. 

“The Emperor demands results,” Lord Vader says. She hears his heavy, mechanical breathing. 

In, out. In, out. In, out. It's supposed to calm her down. But it doesn't. It doesn't at all. She bites her lip, and she forces herself to plow ahead. 

“And he will get them,” Trilla assures him. 

“See to it that he does,” Lord Vader says, “or I will find someone else who can give them to him. Second is not a permanent position.” Trilla nods, and ignores the fear that claws itself into her brain. 

“Of course, Lord Vader.” she says. 

She knows that it's not wise. She knows that it's not productive. But after meeting with Lord Vader, she immediately stomps over to the Jedi's cell and demands that he open the holocron. He shakes his head, not even gracing the question with a "no".

"Why won't you just try," she demands, "then you at least get to feel the Force again." She doesn't know why he wouldn't want that back, at the very least. He shakes his head again, and Trilla feels her anger flare up along with her fear.

"Why not?"

“Would you have done anything different, before they broke you?” The Jedi asks. Trilla bites her lip. She honestly isn’t sure on that one. 

“You can’t feel the Force, you can’t see anyone but me,” she says, “you’re stuck in a four by four foot cell with a constantly growing pile of your own shit and piss. Are you honestly telling me that’s better than opening a holocron?” She knows that if their positions were switched, she would break. She's living proof of the choice she would have made.

“Yes, I am.” 

“We’ll torture you.” 

“Uh huh.” 

“ _Real_ torture,” she says. Not this baby stuff that he’s suffered through, piss in the corner and a collar ‘round his neck. She’d strap him to the electric chair and send enough volts through his body to keep him feeling the shocks for _weeks._

“You’re bluffing.” 

“Oh, am I?” Trilla asks, anger building in her belly. She knows that it won’t aid her goals, but Force. She just wants to make this boy suffer. To make him like her. 

“You're better than that," he says.

"Assume that I'm not," Trilla says, rolling her eyes.

"Then you torture me, and I won’t be able to do it when I agree,” he says softly, “we both know that.” And yes, she knows that. She’s known that since the beginning, but knowing something doesn’t make it any easier to bear. 

There are plenty of truths that sit heavy on her back, pushing her down into the ground until she can’t even breathe. The anger swarms around her, burrowing in her stomach, in her chest, in her throat. She feels her hands ball into fists, and the only thing she wants in the world is to make this boy feel an _ounce_ of the pain that she does. 

She wants to rip that collar off his neck and shove her hand in his face, forcing him to live one of his damn psychometric visions through her eyes. Then maybe he would understand what’s at stake- why he should just _break already_. 

“I am going to enjoy every moment of torturing you,” she growls. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath in, and a deep breath out.  
  
Stupid Jedi calming technique. 

“Then I won't be able able to open it. Just. Like. You.” She wants something to throw right back in his face, something equally painful, but she just- she can't think of anything. Not anything properly painful. His master died for him, her master took him in. The only suitably painful thing could be that Cere Junda abandoned him, but that doesn't hurt him the way it hurts _her_. Cere wasn't his master, after all.

She feels the anger surge, and she wants to choke him- but. She knows that it won't _do_ anything. When she comes back, Kestis will insist that he won't open the holocron until she breaks him. She'll have to dance back and forth with whether or not she wants to risk actually torturing him, and he'll tell her there's something in her worth saving. And he still. won't. break. Choking him won't break him. It won't even effect the equation. Kriff, it won't even make her _feel_ any better. Instead, Trilla slams her feet down as heavy as she can as she races to her room.

When Trilla gets back to her room, she grabs the damn cube and throws it against her wall as hard as she can. It doesn’t break, because the holocron is made of stronger stuff than that. _Cal Kestis_ is made of stronger stuff than that. 

Maybe she’s the only one in the world who’s so capable of shattering. 

If anyone asked, Trilla would not admit that she spent an hour sobbing into her pillow. She would tell them that she spent that time plotting a way to access the holocron.

The tears, at least, were holocron related. Tears of anger and frustration at not being able to bend the Jedi in the direction that she hoped, tears of inadequacy, tears of fear for what Lord Vader will do to her when he finally decides that her endeavor has failed, and so has she. 

Failed inquisitors don’t live long. She doesn't allow herself to hope for anything beyond survival.

Trilla pulls her face out of the wet pillow, and spots the holocron on her nightstand, in the same spot it has sat for as long as she’s had it. It sits there, immobile, mocking her for being unable to crack it. She grits her teeth, and tries to calm down. She shifts onto her back, takes a deep breath in. A deep breath out. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. A deep breath in. A deep breath out. 

Once she feels something resembling calm, she opens her eyes. She doesn’t look at the holocron intentionally, but spots it out of the corner of her eye. It has started to glow white. 

A deep breath in, a deep breath out. 

The holocron glows brighter, as if there’s a whole star trapped inside of it. Suddenly, Trilla realizes what happened. She was using that old Jedi calming technique. The holocron responded to _her_ , because she was a Jedi, once. 

And she was acting like one again. 

Trilla feels a plan start to form in her mind, wispy and unclear at first, but as soon as she focuses it clears up; just the way that her lightsaber design came to her on Ilum. 

If she wants to access this Jedi holocron, she has to _think_ like a Jedi. She might not be a practitioner anymore, but Trilla still knows the Jedi ideology. She still knows her exercises inside and out- knows what is expected from a good little youngling, what would get a Padawan reprimanded, how to finally become a knight. 

Maybe she can trick the holocron into thinking that she’s _still_ a Jedi, just for long enough to access the information that she needs. She might think that the Jedi Code is a load of bantha shit, but that doesn’t mean that she can’t get into the mindset, right? If she could just break through that membrane and get into the holocron herself, she can cut Kestis out entirely. She can deliver the information to Lord Vader herself, earn the Emperor’s favor, and maybe finally break the chains that tie her under the Grand Inquisitor’s thumb. 

Trilla grabs the holocron, and lies down on her stomach. She places the cube right above her belly button and lets it sit there. She pushes it up as she inhales, and feels it come down as she exhales. 

Calm, tranquil thoughts. Caring. Compassion. Generalized affection that never seems to be enough to quench anyone's need for love. A twinge of anger- she pushes it down. 

Calm, she insists, feeling the holocron warm slightly on her stomach. Calm. 

She focuses on nothing but her breathing and the feeling of the cube in the Force for what feels like ages. The darkness behind her eyes seems to shift into an actual scene. The holocron appears in her mind’s eye, the size of a house and glowing white at every edge. Inside the front wall, there seems to be a door peaking out of bright white light. 

Trilla takes a hesitant step forward. The cube does not disappear. It does not move away. She continues walking towards it until she reaches the door. Then, she holds out her hand and gently touches the surface. Instead of cool like the holocron was, it’s warm to the touch like a running droid. 

She runs her palm against the surface, finally settling with her hand directly in front of her face. Then, she pushes forward. To her surprise, the door slides forward and her vision floods with bright white light. Suddenly, it looks as though Trilla is alone in a small room, with white stucco walls, ceilings, and floors. In the very middle of the room is a single black book sitting on a little silver table. 

Trilla takes a hesitant step forward, and the image does not disappear. Then, she strides confidently over to the book.

She cautiously reaches forward to grab the ancient-looking text. Gathering from the fact that it’s a physical book at all, it’s older than anything Trilla has ever seen before. She gently runs her palm over the front, taking in the soft feel of the leather. 

Contained within this book is the name of every Jedi that was or ever will be. She takes a deep breath, and then grabs the edge of the cover. She flips it over, and glances at the front page. 

The page itself is a worn sort of white, stained the slightest bit yellow from years of wear. But the text is an unmistakable black, written boldly in a cursive script. It’s only two words, a single, terrifying name written proudly across the entire page: Trilla Suduri. 

She doesn’t feel shocked, or offended, or even excited that she tricked the holocron. It just feels like a... confirmation. The little thing in her chest unfurls its wings, and flaps them. Then, it starts to soar. There was always something hopeful, buried deep down inside of her- the part that wanted to still be a Jedi. She can feel it flying towards the sky now that it knows she always has been one. 

The book starts to disappear in her hands, and Trilla tries to hug it to her chest to keep it from escaping. She wants that proof, wants to hold it in her hands and know that it’s true, but the last bits disappear. Then the walls do, and then she’s left with nothing but black. 

As Trilla opens her eyes, she gasps for air as if she’s been underwater for long enough to drown. She sits up abrupt, heart racing like an outer rim pod ship in the middle of a race. She feels the holocron slide down her stomach and into her lap. 

She reaches out to grab it, and clutches it in her hand. It feels like the damn thing is _mocking her. Tehehehe,_ it sings, _you’re still a Jedi._

And part of her wishes that she could deny it, that if she chucked the damn thing across the room it would fix that immutable truth. But it can’t. The holocron let her in. It showed her her own name, and now she’s here, gently holding the thing instead of strategizing how to trick it into showing her the rest of the names to deliver to Lord Vader. 

That’s what she should be doing, right? Figuring out how to get the information for herself, and how to give it to her superiors? She’ll be spared suffering, and maybe gain the Emperor’s favor. 

Which will delay suffering, maybe even lessen it. All that she’s done for five years here is do her best to avoid suffering, and try to take joy when she had the chance to inflict it on others. That’s where the power comes from, right? The ability to hurt others as you’ve been hurt? That's the Sith way. But here she is, relieved that the only name she could claw out of that holocron is her own. She thinks of little Trilla Suduri, strapped to that chair and oh so fucking afraid. She shudders at the thought, and shudders as she thinks of all those hypothetical children whose names must fill the book.

She doesn’t want that to happen to all those kids on that holocron. She holds the block tightly, and she feels it warm in her hand in approval. 

Well, fuck? 

What’s she going to do now? 

* * *

  
  


What she comes up with is not a plan as much as a desperate leap into the vacuum of space. She keeps the holocron, grabs her own lightsaber, and gets Cal Kestis's out of storage. Then, she marches down to his cell; this time with a purpose other than taunting him and trying to drag him down with her.

“What do you want today?” he asks, looking up at her, “more stunning conversation?” Trilla clutches the holocron for just a moment. She tosses it up in the air, catching it again in her hands. He bites his lip, nervously watching her treat a precious artifact as a fidget toy.

"Shouldn't you be careful with that?" he asks cautiously, "I doubt your bosses would like if you broke it." Trilla rolls her eyes, and opens up the door to the cell. She takes a step inside, and realizes after one whiff from her nose that she needs to breathe through her mouth.The smells of piss and shit have started to merge together into something truly rancid, and she thinks it might take Kestis more than one shower to wash all of it off since he's been sitting in it for so long.

He glances behind her with a surprised look, and she knows that he's noticed that the red wall of energy behind her hasn't reignited. He doesn't have much time to think about it before she chucks the holocron his way. It’s a testament to his abilities that he’s able to catch it without any warning from either her or the Force. He holds it up to his face, and then turns it around in his hand. 

His eyebrows furrow as he looks at it, turning it over to look at every side. She doubts that he knows every side looks exactly the same. He didn’t exactly get a good look at it before she took it, after all. 

“Open it,” she orders.

“We both know that I can’t right now,” he says. He lifts his other hand up to point at his collar, for emphasis. She rolls her eyes, shoves his head down, and then sticks the key into the hole at the back of his neck. She turns it over and hears the metal clunk as it opens. Then, she takes it off and sets it down on the side. 

Kestis's eyes jerk to the place where the energy wall should have been, then back to her. His eyes jerk from the right hip where she keeps her own lightsaber, to the left hip where she’s currently holstered his. 

“You’re letting me escape,” he says dimly. 

“Yes, you _idiot_ ,” she hisses. She grabs his lightsaber and shoves it into his hand. 

“How obvious must I make it!” His eyes widen, and then he shoots to his feet. He starts to run out of the cell, but turns his head back. 

“Come on,” he says with that earnest look of his, “we have to hurry.” He even does the hurry up gesture with his free hand. 

“ _You_ have to hurry.” His stance changes then. He was ready to start running forward at a moment’s notice, but then he turns around to face her. He plants his feet firmly on the ground in a strong, sturdy position: something that screams _I'm not moving_.

“I’m not going without you,” he says, meeting her eyes. 

“You think _I_ can get out of here?” she asks. Even though she disabled the audio in this cell, she has no doubt by this point the other inquisitors are on their way to put them both down.

“I think you’re more likely to get out than I am,” he says, sending her a smile, “you’ve seen me duel.” Trilla cracks a smile. She’s more than seen him duel; she fought him, and she hasn’t been impressed by what she’s seen. If she weren’t going easy on him, she would have killed him more than once. 

“Alright then,” she says, nodding at him, “together.” She was never going to live through this, after she decided to release him. She might as well go out getting one of the last Jedi in the galaxy to safety. And Force, maybe he's right. She _might_ not die. She lived through Order 66, after all. 

Trilla’s scared, but there’s something there too. Something that isn’t dark. It feels light and excited, giddy almost. Hope nestles its way into her chest, and she feels it take off inside her once again.

Kestis smiles as he draws his saber, two bright green blades coming out of the center of his saberstaff. Trilla draws her own, but only ignites one end to make a single blade, just like when she was a Padawan. She knows that her face is glowing inquisitor red, but maybe that doesn’t matter. 

If both Cal Kestis and the holocron think that there’s still some Jedi in her, she thinks they must be right. 

“Let’s try, then,” she says, “I have a path in mind to get us to the escape pods.” He nods at her, and lets her show him the way. 

She knows that she might have to get herself killed to make sure that she doesn’t get taken alive, but with someone to protect- that’s not the first option anymore. She wants to _live_ , to breathe, to do, and then to stop doing all those terrible things the Empire got her to.

Most of all, she wants to give this brave little bird fluttering around in her chest a chance to soar.


End file.
